Tangled in Cords
by Redstorm of Scar Pack
Summary: It was like a bell jar, the depression suffocating her, trapping her beneath the glass, unable to break out.
1. I'm Here For You

My name is Lily, like the flower. Last name, Turner. I was fifteen when I was attending a simple suburban high school, the only one in my town. Back then almost nobody suspected anything because my city was so quiet, almost no odd things happened there.

I was attending a rather small school called Padua High. It was rundown and full of unforgiving people. I was the outcast, always in trouble for this, that or the other. Almost no one talked to me, for fear that criminality was contagious.

At this point in time I had just stormed out of the gloomy English class to talk to my "special counselor", a maniacal upbeat woman who thinks the world of anyone who comes into her office ... if she even bothers paying attention to your problems. Normally she sits there, pretending to care as she types away at her novel about a medium and her adventures. I've heard it's good.

By the way, it wasn't the guidance counselor whom I had reason with me that day. No, it was Mr Daniels, principal of Padua High, probably the quietest man you could ever meet. A little strange, but maybe no one would ever suspect him of anything because he was all about harmony.

I was arguing with my English teacher about Hemingway (an abusive, alcoholic man, as I had gently put it) when I was summoned to the office by Mr Daniels. My dark hair curled around my face as I passed my fellow students, and nasty smirks toasted their faces as I left. Me being called to the principal's office was all too common. It was always the same thing: _disobedience; unfair play in gym class; parents called for vandalism in the cafeteria._

My dark brown eyes narrowed as I scanned the room for any signs of Ms Ross, for normally when I got called in, she was the one I was presented to, to her great delight.

But today was something different. Today she was on a teaching course, or so I was told. Today I had to pop in to see the principal.

My fingers fumbled for my beanie, and I smashed it over my head as I entered the office. "Hello, sir," I mumbled, not even bothering to roll my eyes.

His gaze was mellow, warm and friendly. "Hello, Lily. How are you this morning?"

I shrugged, a simple answer for one so irritable and intolerable. "OK, I guess."

"You're the younger child of two, right?" he continued, a casual conversation. Well, at least he didn't press me further about defiance, or giving a little speech about "making friends". I frowned slightly. The man had no shame.

"Yes," I snarled, hostility burning in my eyes.

"How are your folks?"

I huffed slightly. "You know the answer to that question, Mr Daniels." And it's true. He knew that my father was never home, and when he was, I was constantly beaten and shrunk down. My mother was a binge drinker, and a witch. Bit of an insomniac, my grandmother had said. I never got to know what that meant - she'd died before I got to ask her.

"Well," he said, and this is when I noticed the dark bags under his eyes. "It's OK to talk to someone, you know. I'm here for you if you need a chat." When I didn't reply, he pressed forward, leaning towards me with his hands interlocked. "Lily, I know you're in a dark place at the moment, but it's bad to leave all that negative energy locked inside you."

My lip curled at the mention of the understanding. Like he _cared_. Like he _understood_ what I was going through. I could have chosen that moment to spit back a vicious reply, but instead I held my ground, my whole body tense; alert.

"I'm late for second period," I said stiffly.


	2. Scar the Child and Kill the Father

When they released us from school, it was late. 5 o' clock in the afternoon, to be precise. Not that my parents would care. Dear old dad would probably be out "working late" or some other weak excuse. I didn't think we knew he was lying: everyone knows he's unemployed.

I grimaced as I pushed open the door of our rundown little apartment, and studied the carnage: a half-empty bottle of blood-red wine, it's rich liquid running down the back of the room; the lights dying, slowly painting me in harsh, overhead brightness; mirror cracked against the wall.

_So, they had another fight. Another screaming match. Brilliant, _I predicted. I ducked my head to avoided the swinging light bulb, turned on the bath tap so it sounded like I was in there for a reason, and listened to the muffled sounds of blow after blow. My parents. Again.

It was freezing, and I buried myself against the warmth of the blanket, which is to say, none. Daddy didn't believe in electric heating, but we had bed covers. We survived, somehow.

"...kind of husband you are!" My mother, screaming as she threw another beer bottle.

I flinched. I knew what was coming, and so did my hare-brained mother. My father would grab her by the throat, or something like that, and threaten her vigorously.

I remembered when he was a great father, when he took me out for ice-cream and movies and the like, before the money started running out and we were slowly starving. Before he favoured the bottle, and had to claw his way out.

I had to get in there, I had to see what I could do, even if I was powerless. I tiptoed across the hallway to the sources of the screaming, wincing as the walls vibrated. _He's probably slammed her into the wall._

"Mum?" I called, flinching as my mother screamed at me to get my butt back into my room, and did I want to be hurt by this raging homicidal maniac. The words were full of drunken slurs and I had no defence.

My father turned to me, his green eyes hardening. He hauled me by the collar, twisting my arms so I could not get away.

"Hello," he hissed, a smile toasting his face.

"Don't even think about hurting her," my mother screeched, pulling on his shirt pocket. My father's arm flew out, slapping her across the face, an angry mark blurred onto her cheek.

"Shut _up," _he snapped, hauling me closer. His expression wavered a bit, albeit the shimmer in his wild eyes. He then proceeded to push me around, my mother shrieking ugly words at him all the while.

"C'mon, Julie, why don't we just get rid of her? Then we can live in a better household, like you wanted. Like _we _wanted."

My mother, ever the quickest, swept me behind her with one arm, shielding me from the deranged psychopath. "Tim, you can't. You're hurt, you aren't seeing things clearly, you need help ..."

"It will be easy," he snarled. "Unless you want a chance to die for _her_?" The malice in his eyes was unmistakeable.

My mother turned to me, pride shimmering in her pale blue eyes. I had never, not once, had seen her wear that expression ever. Well, for me, at least. She held me close and I could sense how terrified she was.

The last thing my mother saw was the muzzle of the revolver my father had cupped in the hollow of his palm.

* * *

My father turned to me, an aura of pride shimmering around him. Blood welled up in my nasal passages and it was all I could do to hold in my disgust. He turned to me, smirking a bit as he raised the gun again. Fortunately, he was weak from the fight, and dark pools of blood trickled out in fresh rivers.

"Daddy?" I called, repulsed by his calm demeanour. He cocked an eyebrow, intrigued. "I hate you."

I know I should tell you I felt sorry for what I did. Or at least embarrassed.

His end came, anyway.


	3. Not Only Sane, But Innocent

I was the one who delivered the call late at night, pondering over what I should tell the cops. I threw the land line into the wall, frustration welling up inside me. _I've done it: they'll see me, a maniac, and if they find out what I did, they'll send me to the orphanage. _

It was then I decided to leave before they got here.

* * *

I let the rain wash the blood from my hands, slick and hot, erasing them from memory, although the horror was still fresh and immediate. I still couldn't forgive my father for what he'd done, but a small part of me wondered. Maybe it is because he was my dad, and I wanted to believe he still had my best interests at heart. Maybe I wanted to believe he was not a monster. And this was all a dream, and when I woke up I'd be little again, and he'd take me out for ice-cream. Maybe.

But it wasn't the same, and it never would be. Because I knew at that moment what I'd done might have been inhumane. It might have been evil. Or sickening, and maybe I shouldn't have done it.

But it was right.

* * *

Every counselling session people dragged me to, I expected the same things. You couldn't really want to kill your father and then run away from home. You could only do that if said father was abusive and cruel. Or if your mother was a crack addict. Or if you were the shy kid, who had no friends, no money, no family, no nothing.

So you start off small, as I did with the cops. I told them my perspective. My father _was _abusive. Mummy _did _favor the bottle, and I have the scars to prove it. I _was _the shy child, the one nobody wanted to talk to. I loved the reaction some of them gave me. Even _thrived _on it. Horror. Terror. As long as it wasn't sympathy, I was alright with it.

But sometimes an unhappy childhood wasn't enough. The cops pushed further, asked you to dig deeper. So I told them I spent my whole life on happy pills, told them the story of my self-harm, how I spent the entire school dance trying to kill myself.

But they didn't _know_. They weren't _enlightened_. I could see the potential in them, though. I could see they were closer to snapping, as I have now.

I could help some of them, could teach them how to do it. Because if there's one thing life has taught me, it's that when the times get rough, when all you have left is all the terrible things screaming at you, remember, there's always madness.

Madness is the emergency exit.

All these things raced through my mind the first time I stepped into his office, demanding to take a psychological test. His eyes were a vivid green, like music. His hair short and cropped, a parting in the middle. Blonde like honey.

"Lily," Dr Radcliffe began, "we're just going to do some tests. It's quite standard."

I scowled at him, my chocolate brown eyes narrowed into slits. "Whatever. If you're going to do anything, just come out with it, you bastard."

"Let's use respectful language here," he said quietly. I rolled my eyes in dismissal when he didn't press the matter further.

He then proceeded to flick through some individual pictures, ordering me to tell me what I saw. "Cat," I said, trying hard not to sound bored. "Star. Spaceship."

Dr Radcliffe paused, staring hard at me, his green eyes soft and mellow. "Lily. You say you're worried about yourself. I see no reason to be afraid of you."

"You should be," I snapped. "Most people are."

"Well, I'm not. Why should I be afraid? You have not demonstrated any psychopathic intentions, and your mental health is quite normal."

"How did you think I got here?" I snarled. "Do you think I just got off the wrong bus stop? _I killed someone_!"

That made him stiffen, and he leaned forward, his hands interlocking each other. A bridge between us. "How did you do it?"

I thought my throat was paved with straw. "W-what?"

"The killing, I mean." Radcliffe's voice was thoughtful, a faraway tone where I could never reach it.

"I can't remember," I said stiffly.

"Yes, you do," he countered, "otherwise you would never have brought it up. Enlighten me."

_He's challenging me. I cannot let him win._ "I don't want to talk about this here," I snarled.

"Everything we talk about is completely confidential," he announced. "Unless you want me to discuss it with the other doctors."

_Shit_, I thought. He knew how to get to me. "No, I don't want you to," I hissed.

"Such ferocity," Dr Radcliffe sighed. "There's something I want you to know, Lily. I don't think you're a criminal. You are not a murderer. You're just a normal teenage girl who just so happened to be a victim of abusive parenting. A shame, really."

"Can I go now?" I snapped. Every word there was clipped with malice. "I want to go back to my dormitory."

This was my home now. Trapped in a lunatic asylum.


	4. Games That Mad People Play

I was called back into the cafeteria for lunch by the nurse who felt the most dislike for me. I could feel her dark eyes piercing me all the way to the dining hall, my hair in loose curls, framing my face.

I snatched a tray from the cluttered sideboard and was just turning around when a friendly voice piped up right behind me. "Hey."

It was a boy, my age, with feathery black hair and an easy-going smile. I was wondering why his voice, mellow and rich, sounded so familiar, when I told myself it didn't matter.

"Hi," I replied, not bothering to sound polite. What did friendliness ever do for me?

"James," he said, his pale green eyes shimmering as he took in my face. "And you are?"

"Lily," I answered, relaxing a bit more in his company. He didn't look very threatening. "Like the flower."

"Gee, I wouldn't have guessed." Even his sarcasm was very fine tuned, making me feel at ease.

"So, were do we sit?"

"Here's pretty much everything you need to know: the lemonade tastes like pickle juice. The bread is always stale. And don't eat the pizza, ever." He caught sight of a wrinkly old lunch lady, all inky mouth and snarling, giving James the finger. He just winked at her. "Oh, and you have to eat at least two servings of fruit and veggies with every meal. They're big on healthy eating. Plus, little old granny there will snark you out if you don't."

I nodded, although I really didn't care. I let James weave me through the crowd and piled on some food, where to my relief, the cashier merely glanced at our wristbands before waving us through. I learned later he only accepted cash from staff and families.

A bowl of pumpkin soup, a chocolate muffin, and a tall glass of orange juice later, he sat me down on a small bench chair, where a pasty redheaded girl sat setting up tarot cards. She paused suddenly, glancing at me, then resumed tossing the cards onto the table.

"Oh, this is Jessica, by the way," James said, ripping into his beagle like he hadn't eaten in weeks.

"Hi," the redheaded girl answered, giving me a genuine smile.

"I'm Lily," I told her, indifferent. She nodded, her sleek hair bouncing in locks around her pale skin.

"So, tell me about yourself," James piped up. "Favorite color?"

I smiled, conjuring up the velvety sunset in my mind. "Orange," I replied. "Like the sunset."

James grinned. "Age?"

This was the weirdest conversation ever. "Fourteen. Well, fifteen next month."

"So, what's your psychosis?" When I didn't reply, he sighed. "Oh, c'mon! Like we all aren't screwed up here. You wanna know my special brand of insane? I'm schizophrenic. And I light stuff on fire." He raised an eyebrow, daring me to respond.

I stiffened, my heart fluttering in my rib cage. "The doctors aren't too sure yet," I answered curtly. "When the police found me, I'd just witness a murder in my house ... and I had this ... big panic attack, or something. They're still trying to figure it out."

James looked skeptical, but made no further protest. He rattled on, explaining random people's issues: "Peter's got major bipolar disorder, Kaylee reckons everyone's out to get her, and Jessica ..."

"Wouldn't even be here if my parents weren't so stupid," came the bitter reply. "They think I've got major depression because I don't talk to them."

"Yeah, like we can't tell what your issues are, Little Miss Sociopath," James scoffed.

Jessica scowled at him. "You think you're so adorable."

"I'm not?" James gave a mock groan, adding, "Ow!" as she kicked him under the table.

I let myself smile playfully at their banter, but deep inside, nausea roiled within me. What did it say about me that Jessica's sociopathic issues and my experiences had at least one detail in common?


	5. Can't Trust the Ones You Love

When I woke up, the other side of the bed was freezing. My fingers stretched out, seeking warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the quilt. And then I remembered. I was shut in a loony bin.

The nurses had come bursting through the door ordering me up for a visitor. They had to be kidding me. No one visited me.

That was when I saw her, all blonde hair and shiny honey-toned locks, beauty framing her face. My big sister. She had come for me.

"Lily!" She practically bounced out of her seat, sprinting towards me, energy leaking out of her. "I'm so happy to see you!"

I smiled. My sister was always the optimist, no matter what the game. "It's good to see you too, Marcy."

She blew a wave of her light hair out of her face. "I brought something for you." She whipped out a lightly scrunched up box wrapped in red crepe paper. "The nurses unwrapped it to make sure it was okay, but ..."

I unboxed it and saw, transcribed on the label in gold lettering, was Guylian chocolates. My favourite. "Thanks," I exclaimed, crushing her in a hug. I popped one in my mouth, allowing the silkiness to bathe over my tongue, and offered the box to my sister.

"No, they're for you," Marcy said. "So, Lily. It must've been pretty scary for you, seeing Dad like that."

I stiffened. "You heard about that?"

"Well, yeah," she exclaimed. "It was all over the place. When people at your school started talking about abusive parents and stuff, I was like, Lily, no-brainer. So what happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

My sister gently touched my forearm. "Lily, this is me, okay? You can tell me anything."

I sighed, letting my stiff body relax. "Well, when I got in the house, all seemed normal, then Dad had a massive panic attack again and lashed out."

"No way," my sister mused. "Did he hurt you?"

"Yeah," I said softly, and then the full weight of what I'd done settled in the pit of my stomach. "Threatened me with a knife."

My sister covered her mouth in shock, tears streaming down her face. She deftly wiped these away with a handkerchief.

"So what did you see when you came in?" I asked.

"This is pretty scary stuff, Lily," Marcy whispered. "I don't want to frighten you."

"It's okay," I encouraged. "Tell me."

Marcy took a deep, shaky breath. "Alright. I got in the door from my late-night shift. I noticed the lights didn't work first time I'd put them on, and I went to the power box to see if they were out. So, that happened, and I had fixed the lights. When I came back down ... Mum's body was there, and ... there was blood." She continued to wipe her eyes with that God-awful handkerchief. "And there was Dad, stab marks all over his body ... But I knew you wouldn't hurt him, no matter what he put you through, right?" She gave me a weak smile in return, and when I didn't answer she gasped, her blue eyes glimmering with shock.

"Wow," she whispered. "I knew you hated Dad, but ..."

"No!" I protested. "Marcy. You aren't going to tell anyone what I've just told you, right?"

"Of course not! Why would I do that?" she argued, staring at me wide-eyed. She averted her gaze from me, her pale lips pursed. "I have to go, I'm late for work. I'll see you next week, alright?" She gave me a small kiss on the forehead and strode quickly out of the room.

Slowly, it dawned on me. My sister didn't work on Fridays, unless she had changed her shift, in which case she would have told me. A bitter taste swirled its' way into my mouth, and even though I knew what that disgusting taste meant, I fought hard to deny it.

It was the taste of my beloved sister lying.

* * *

"You okay?" one of the nurses demanded, brushing past me on her way to the break room.

What was I supposed to tell them? _Well, I've just found out that my sister thinks I'm a raging homicidal lunatic, and I can taste when other people are lying. So yeah, I'm totally amazing, thanks for asking. _

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat still at large. I fought to control the tears that were threatening to spill over my eyelashes. I couldn't afford to leave this room with a red nose and puffy eyes.

So I stared hard at the hazel eyes shimmering in front of me, gathered my emotions, and pushed them away.

"I'm fine," I snapped.


	6. A Memory

I pressed my head to the wall of my room, thoughts swimming like a goldfish, happy to be going nowhere, and listened to the sound of music wafting through the door. The nurses liked to listen to a song or two when they were relaxing, taking a break from all the psychos they had to deal with. Tonight it was Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here, which was, funnily enough, dedicated to their drummer that was suffering from mental illness.

_So, so you think you can tell _  
_ Heaven from Hell, _  
_ Blue skies from pain. _  
_ Can you tell a green field _  
_ From a cold steel rail? _  
_ A smile from a veil? _  
_ Do you think you can tell? _

_ And did they get you to trade _  
_ Your heroes for ghosts? _  
_ Hot ashes for trees? _  
_ Hot air for a cool breeze?_

"Go figure," I scoffed.

But this song and my unrelenting thoughts had hashed out a flashback that happened three years ago, when the money first started getting low.

_"I am so sick of this right now," my sister said to me one morning over eggs Benedict. "How is it fair that Dad's the only person in town with a bad life right now? What did he do to deserve this?" The night before, our father had brutally threatened our mother for having an affair with another man. Kurt wasn't handsome, or witty, or funny, or even interesting, so what she saw in him was a mystery. _

_"I know," I said distractedly. "It's not fair."_

_"He's out there every night, hurting because of the low pay," Marcy snapped, "and he has to suffer."_

_I nodded importantly. What I didn't want to tell my sister is that I felt absolutely no empathy whatsoever for our father's self-proclaimed 'pain'. I believed he had brought it on himself. _

_"And Mum's always on his case about abuse," Marcy snorted. "Where's the abuse? What bad has he possibly done?" _

_But even I could answer this question for her. She was never home, so of course she had not seen the things he had done to my mother and I. Why would she? The signs were all there, granted, but she did not notice them. They had paled in comparison to her little world._

_"Who knows," I answered curtly, stuffing my face full of hash brown. "Maybe she'll get some sense knocked into her."_

_Marcy's eyes lit up. "If only." _

_"I wish. She'll be doubling up the rates this town's inhabitants are losing their minds."_

_"Speaking of which, did you notice Mum's become more depressed? She wants be out of the house so badly, she's practically becoming a younger version of Grandma. What's next, a receding hairline?" _

_"Maybe it's not the money Dad's mad about," I mused. "Maybe it's us."_

_"Lily, he's not like that."_

_"What would you know?" I snapped. "You're never home! You leave me here with _him!"

_My sister, refusing to believe her beloved father figure was ever cruel or brash, threw down her knife and fork and stormed out of the flat._


	7. In A Dark Place

The sound of rain jolted me out of my stupor, lulling me to consciousness. It had been nearly a week since my sister had visited me, and despite her promises, she had not arrived a second time. I knew she wouldn't, so I don't know why I was disappointed.

I sighed inwardly and slid my body off the bed, ignoring my prescribed pills that glared at me from the shelf. I pulled on jeans, a simple white shirt, and tucked my long hair up into a braid, then joined the nurses for a therapy session. _Oh, goody._

It was there I laid eyes on the nicest person I would ever learn to hate.

"Hello," the blonde-headed wench began. "I am Janet Ferguson."

* * *

"We all experience anger," said Janet. She spoke with a quiet air around her and a mellow French accent. "And part of this session is to let that anger go with people who will listen and not judge. I hope we can all be friends here, and give that gift of friendship to where it matters most. So, James, let's start with you. What makes you angry?"

"Anger's a waste," James exclaimed, looping his arms around Jessica's abdomen. "I'm past that negative stuff. All you need to do is open your arms and embrace the oneness of us all!" He spread his limbs so enthusiastically he nearly knocked the glasses off a donkey-faced girl's head.

He then went on to explain that anger was a horrible emotion and that all anyone needed was a radical new form of therapy to make everyone feel good. I lost the thread of his logic at one point, but his grand scheme for things included an outdoor rock concert featuring all of his favourite bands, limitless supplies of energy drinks and regular gaming sessions for all patients. If Janet had not stopped him halfway through the debate, he might have talked the whole hour and a half.

"Thank you, James, that was very interesting," Janet said dryly. "But let's give someone else a chance, shall we?" Her cornflower blue eyes scanned the room before settling down on my slim build, glimmering slightly. "Lily? How about you?"

"I'd rather not," I replied briskly.

"It doesn't have to be a lot," Janet coaxed. "It's okay to start small."

I fidgeted a bit in my seat. "I don't really ... do anger," I mumbled. "It doesn't really solve anything, so I try not to get into it."

What I'd really meant to tell her was that I got angry at every little thing: at myself. At my parents. At my sister, who had told me she'd loved me even though she had not come in to see her little sister despite her urges.

"That's not quite true," Janet reprimanded softly. "I think you're harbouring something, Lily. Some things you need to let go of."

This conversation was getting nowhere. I stormed out of there, slamming the door to my room with as much force as possible. In that one simple gesture was all the contempt, all the hatred I had ever felt at everyone, including the world.

* * *

The doctors found me there later that evening, clawing at every ornament I could find. Walls dented and chipped, broken beyond repair. Glass bottles strewn all over the place to the quick, their contents crushed. Red poppies where there weren't any before.

"Lily seems depressed. Isn't there anything you can do to help?" My sister, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Dr Radcliffe: "There is always medication, but she has openly refused ..."

"And who's fault would that be?" Marcy seethed. "If you had just believed her when she said those things about herself, you would have been in much better condition. Your _drugs _have done nothing but make her even more short-tempered!"

_Ironic, coming from the woman who thinks I'm a deranged sociopath._

"Well, ma'am," the doctor sighed, "I'm afraid there isn't much we can do apart from prescribe her different drugs. It's a simple procedure, quite standard, don't you worry. It's just a side effect that made her ill, happens in every medication ..."

I watched through the keyhole of my room as me fumbled about for the small bottle of happy pills and a receipt. My sister, catching the tub when thrown to her hissed, "And there better be some improvement this time, or else."

My doctor narrowed his shimmering eyes. "I'll see your threats to the door, Ms Turner."

A crack of light spilled on my brunette locks, turning them gold. With shaking fingers, I reached out to take the bottle from Dr Radcliffe's pale hand, only to immediately be surrounded in complete silence once more.

And then I behaved like a good little mental patient, and took my pills.


	8. Just Us Two

It was early afternoon the day I found an old stash of my favourite classical movies. The nurses were reluctant to let me in the movie theatre all by myself, but Dr Radcliffe had convinced them otherwise.

"Well hello, _baby._" It was James, pale skin and all, leaning against the doorframe. "Miss me?"

This was the first I'd heard of him for two days. He'd gone off his meds and wouldn't get out of bed, so they had to drag him out of the psycho ward and send him to a Catholic home. "Maybe. So what happened?"

That made him smile. Pleasure lit up in his pale eyes, a quiver in his voice. "I got shipped out to some creepy born-again family who made me go to church with them. Acting insane was the only way I could get a break."

"What'd you do?"

An evil grin curved at his cheeks, like someone had cut it into his face. "I lit their new-born baby on fire."

I narrowed my eyes. "Very funny."

James gave a whoop of laughter, his eyes straying over to the DVD box. "You like old movies?"

I was surprised, and touched, that he'd noticed. "Yeah."

"Great! Let's do that, then. Just you and me."

"I don't think that's such a good idea, James," one of the aids interrupted. "You should leave her alone." She was talking, of course, about yesterday night's fiasco - me refusing my pills, the padded cell a wreck. For that I'd had to be accompanied by a nurse at all times.

He snorted. "Hey, I'm a schizo, not a rapist. We'll leave the door open. C'mon, Bridget, all these rules you bend, but not this one?"

Bridget huffed, blowing a caramel-brown strand of hair out her face. "What do you say, doctor?"

Radcliffe frowned. "I say let them, but keep an eye on the pair at all times."

Bridget sighed. Compared to my meltdown yesterday night and James' impulsive rowdiness, she was reluctant to conform. But rules were rules.

"Fine," she snapped, "but I'm not the one keeping an eye on these two."

It was then she turned on her heel and stalked out, while I went to the DVD player and picked out _Casablanca. _

* * *

"Wow," James said to me while he stuffed his face full of my chocolates. "You're _in love_ with this guy, aren't you?"

It had only just registered to me that I'd been sprawled on the couch, slack-jawed at Paul Henreid for the better part of twenty minutes.

"Um, yeah," I muttered. "But don't tell anyone."

James pretended to zip his lips with an invisible key, but the sparkle of mischief in his eyes unsettled me. "Isn't that, like, a genetic thing? Because you had an abusive childhood?"

I was speechless. "H-how did you know?" I spluttered. I hadn't told anyone, not even Dr Radcliffe, whom I felt I could trust.

James' expression softened. "I'd kind of guessed it when we first met. People always say I'm good at reading expressions."

I relaxed a bit, realizing my body was as stiff as cardboard. "Well, in that case."

I reached out to grab a couple of my chocolates, then found myself touching wrappers. _Just _the wrappers. Because he'd eaten my chocolates.

Every last one.


	9. New Roommate

The next few weeks were flung upon me with boring oppression. After a while I got sick of the boring routine and got up during a therapy session, ignoring the nurse's protests, and sauntered out the door, searching for a place where I could vent out my frustration without being seen.

I shuffled across the halls and to my shock, the door to the courtyard was blocked. I pounded, jimmied the doorknob, slammed my hip against the bar, but it still refused to budge. One of the younger nurses, a woman with frilly ginger locks named Rose, stomped out to see who was making such a racket.

"What ..." She widened her eyes at the sight of me, raising her palms in a simple, non-threatening gesture, and then I realized how crazy I looked. "Easy, Lily. I'm just here to help."

How much trouble had I gotten myself into to make these nurses afraid? It seemed even in my best efforts I couldn't even pick up a lunch tray without causing agitation somewhere.

"I want to go outside," I mumbled. "I want to be alone."

Rose furrowed her brow, her forehead crinkling in mild frustration. "Well, there's work being done on the courtyard right now, so all I can do is send you to your room. Just you and me. Would you like that?" She spoke in a mild tone, but underneath I could sense fear lurking.

A bubble of hysteria snaked its' way in front of me, stroking orange across my vision. "Alright." Sheepishly, I followed my aide to my room and flopped down into my bed while she watched me, hazel eyes narrowed. Not exactly unhappy, but not exactly thrilled, either. Tranquil, maybe?

"Do you want me to get Dr Radcliffe?" she said softly. "Any other doctor?"

I shook my head. "No, thank you," I muttered into the sweat-stained pillow. All Radcliffe could offer me was antidepressants or false sympathy, and I did not want either of those things.

Rose nodded in understanding, then sat down on the edge of the bed. "I know it must be hard. Starting over without family. But I know you will be alright now."

This was the longest speech I'd heard her make, and the kindest. Rose wasn't a huge fan of talking at the best of times, and tonight was no exception, but even so, it was nice to hear her comfort me.

"OK," Rose said, each word clipped with the usual briskness. "You can rest until lunchtime, but we need the room inspected by then."

I rolled over, my eyes reddening. "W-what?"

Rose looked taken aback. "Your new roommate," she stammered, wincing slightly. "Coralline. She's been doing a lot better lately, but we need to check the room to make sure she can't hurt herself."

The words were already forming like powdered sugar on my tongue. "Coralline?" I exclaimed. "Your moving her _here?"_

"Y-yes ..." Rose faltered. "I thought Ariel told you!"

She left the sentence unfinished, but even though the words were left hanging in the air, I could still see them, painted in grey in the flickering light: _I thought that was why you were upset._

* * *

Rose must've requested a lunch tray for me, because it showed up much later in the hands of Dr Radcliffe, who thumped it down on my dressing table. "Fifteen minutes," he drawled, and then fled.

Even though my stomach had settled, I didn't feel much like eating, but managed to nibble off the corner of a blueberry muffin and force down a few graham crackers. Then I lay down again, but I couldn't sleep - not now when I knew Coralline could show up at any minute.

I was still brooding over this when the door slammed open and the cleaning staff came in. They pulled out the empty bed and pulled off the mattress, examining every corner and cranny of the bed frame. They inspected every inch of the room, and the bathroom as well. Then they made me get up so they could examine my bed as well, and last of all they raided my personal belongings so they could make sure there weren't any sharp objects.

It was ridiculous, watching them go through my stuff without permission, that they wouldn't take my word for it, but protesting only made them suspicious. So I stood back and watched them pile all my clothes into a pile and scatter all my toiletries onto the floor.

At last the three of them left, and Rose returned, bringing Coralline with her. Her greasy blonde hair was a waterfall that hung limp around her face, but her mouth was as sullen and pursed as ever.

"Meet your new roommate," Rose snapped, in a voice much unlike hers. "And you better get along with this one." Her sorrowful hazel gaze turned to me sharply, and she added, "You gonna stay here, kiddo?"

_Don't call me kiddo, _I pleaded her silently. _I didn't even let my own mother call me kiddo ... _

It was then I realized why the doctors had reinstated Coralline into my room. I had proved myself a humble and quiet patient, unlikely to provoke Coralline and cause any unnecessary panic to the nurses. I scowled at the pasty, lumpy-faced girl leaning against my door frame, wishing she wasn't here. Obviously the doctors had gotten my personality all wrong. I was a raging, homicidal lunatic, and my past proved that several times over. And judging by the glare Coralline shot back at me, she could tell.

"I was just leaving," I stammered.


End file.
